


Bad Habit

by Queerily_kai



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint barton is a good friend, Dresden Dolls - Freeform, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, M/M, No happy endings, Pining, Platonic Cuddling, Rape, Self Harm, Sexual Assault, Song Lyrics, Unhealthy Coping, alcohol use, bucky is not ok, descriptions of cutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 01:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16546298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queerily_kai/pseuds/Queerily_kai
Summary: It's Bucky's last semester of college, and he would be the first to admit he's not dealing well with the stress. There's just a lot of it, and sometimes its just easier to block it all out for a while, even if the aftermath isnt worth the high.it doesn't help that he has a rediculous crush on totally out of his league, and totally unavailable Steve Rogers.  Seriously, what was it about that perfect nerd?Luckily, Clint Barton, Bucky's best friend in the whole world, is there to help pick up the peices each time Bucky spirals out of control.   It happens far too regularly.





	Bad Habit

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags carefully as there are lots of things that could be triggers for people in this fic. And please let me know if you think there are additional things I should tag. Stay safe kids!!
> 
> The title, and bolded lines in the fic are song lyrics from 'Bad Habit' by the Dresden Dolls.

Bucky stared out the window of the cab, watching in a daze as the lights of the city flashed by in wobbly streaks.  The glass against his cheek was cool, comforting if he didn’t think about everything else that had touched that glass before his face.  The germs and viruses and saliva of a hundred strangers coughing and sneezing, the sticky fingers of children straining to see the tops of the sky scrapers, the drunks, the addicts, the business men who never got off their phones and teenagers who never stopped texting.  There were too many goddamn people in this world and it made him want to scream. To make so much noise that they would stay away and let him have some fucking space. 

**_Biting keeps your words at bay_ **

He didn’t though.  He stayed silent. He pushed it all down and locked it away, and disappeared down in the dark, with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.  And Bucky’s thoughts? Definitely not the best company.

“You alright, man?” Clint asked from across the back seat.  An arms length away across the battered vinyl that had probably been puked on, and pissed on, far more times than he wanted to think about. 

Stop thinking about it. 

He gagged slightly,  tensing as he swallowed back the whisky and bile that was fighting to rise. 

Fuck. He thought about it. Too much. 

Bucky sighed and glanced over at Clint, (flinching at the loss of contact as he pulled his cheek from the glass), who now had an eyebrow raised, eye wide as he drunkenly tried to give Bucky a concerned look.  Bucky wanted to laugh. Or at least a part of him did, but he couldn't. He nodded with a shaky smile, and turned his gaze back to the window. 

**_Tending to the sores that stay_ **

He shifted positions, leaning back back against the seat. (Stop thinking about it) and snaked his right hand up the left sleeve of his shirt, grazing his fingers over his arm. The sound of the tires changed as they made their way over the bridge. A steady thump-clump at each seam. 

He closed his eyes and listened (thump-clump, thump-clump, thump-clump) as he ran his fingers over his shoulder, gently brushing over the ridges and valleys of the scars that had healed, and finding comfort in the sting that radiated from the ones that hadn’t yet, sharp and scabbed. 

**_Happiness is just a gash away_ **

Clint poked him in the hip when the cab stopped moving. “Wake up, we’re home.” 

Bucky opened his eyes, and glanced around, noticing the cab drivers hand out for payment. He squirmed in the seat as he struggled to pull his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans and tossed it to Clint before wordlessly getting out of the car.  The street wobbled and the lights brightened as he walked around behind the cab, and onto the the sidewalk, and to the front door of their apartment. Where his sanctuary was. He was numb as he waited for Clint (who had the key) to finish paying and let him in.   

He stood just inside the door for a long moment, staring at nothing in the center of their messy living room, before mumbling to Clint that he was going to bed and stumbling down the hall.  Clint leaned against the door with a sigh, frowning as Bucky disappeared into his sanctuary, and then went to the couch. He wasn’t going to sleep for a while yet, so might as well watch cartoons. 

**_When I open a familiar scar_ **

Bucky shut the door heavily and began pacing around his room, kicking a winding path through the dirty clothes and beer cans and empty chip bags as he went.  He bit his lip as he unsnapped his leather cuff wrist cuffs and and yanked off the dozen rubber bracelets, tossing them onto his desk as he circled past. Heavy chain necklace tossed onto the dresser with a clank, rings joining it with the next lap. He stumbled as he pulled his shirt over his head and violently snapped it to the ground, adding to the apocalyptic landscape of his floor. He paused in front of the mirror attached to his closet door, drawn to the sharp contrast between his pale skin and the dark black of his skinny jeans and studded leather belt, and the angry red lines, scabbed with Thursday’s fresh blood across his chest.  

He told himself no as he reached for the exacto knife on the edge of the dresser. He knew it was a bad idea as he grabbed a baby wipe and cleaned the blade. He thought about how this needed to stop as he  walked his twisting path to his bed and set it down on the nightstand. He let out a sharp laugh that could have just as easily been a sob and quickly removed his boots and jeans and polka-dot socks and florescent green underwear and sat naked on the center of his bed.

**_Pain goes shooting like a star_ **

Bucky crossed his legs and clasped his hands together in his lap.  He stared at the photo of a sunset on the far wall, trying to get lost in the swirls of bright pink and orange and purple, trying to imagine he was on that beach, hearing the waves crash and the seagulls caw. 

Out the window, behind him in the street (in reality), a door slammed and a car alarm started blaring, and Bucky was snapped right back.  Reality sucked. He growled in the back of his throat as he raised his arms, curling his hands into fists and let out a shout as he slammed them down onto the mattress.   A notebook bounced, and George (the stuffed gorilla that he was never EVER getting rid of) toppled to the floor. 

Bucky’s chest grew tight as tears welled up in his eyes.   The thoughts got loud. They told him he sucked, and that he was a freak, and he was easy.   They told him that everyone knew that Bucky Barnes would suck off anyone for a bump of blow, that the little freak would let you do anything if you had the right drugs.  He was no better than a fucking prostitute. He owed it to them. 

**_Comfort hasn't failed to follow so far_ **

He rolled the cool metal handle across his palms and fingers, the heavy weight of the handle pressing into his skin.  It was dominating, its presence impossible to ignore, begging to be stared at. To be used. To punish Bucky in the way he deserved.  So it could all stop for a minute.

**_And you might say it's self-indulgent_ **

He grasped the top of the exacto knife, rigid diamonds of the grip pressing into his finger tips.  The light through the window behind him flashed off the blades sharp edge, just down from its pointed tip.  Encouraging. Promising. 

It was quick and intense as the blade pushed through his skin.  It burned as it dragged across his bicep, stung as oxygen made contact with bursting capillaries, dotted red lines growing thicker.  Over and over. Cycle repeating as verticals and diagonals and horizontals overlapped like a chaotic tic-tac-toe board. And then silence. The thoughts faded as he tossed the knife onto the night stand and fell back on to a lumpy pile of pillows and clothes.  And he could finally fucking relax.

**_You might say its self-destructive_ **

He stretched his arm out, smiling as the skin stretched and stung as it pulled apart, and the red dotted lines grew solid, and the edges grew wavy as they pooled and dripped.  He lifted his arm, using gravity to shift the edges, and twisted until a long red line was drawing itself down toward him. He was numb. He felt the stinging continue in pulses, epicenter shifting as he twisted. He was floating and being pulled into the deep simultaneously.  There was no noise. There was static. White noise. He closed his eyes and went to the beach. He sat in the sand and watched the purple and pink and orange skies, and listened to the crashing waves, with cawing seagulls for company. He found his chill.

**_But, you see, it's more productive_ **

A deep ache replaced the dancing sting, heavy and intrusive. He winced as he moved, and the dried red cracked and dripped again.  It was time to take care of this. He knew how to do that. To clean the lines and wipe away the red and gently bandage it so he wouldn’t wake up stuck to stained sheets. Again.

He snapped awake and found himself back in reality, (again) and holy shit, reality was fucking intense. The car alarm was going off again. The street light outside the window might as well have been a spotlight. Rick and Morty blared so loudly from the living room that he could hear every word of dialogue and belching. He flipped off the universe for harshing his mellow and made his way to the dresser, and tried not to think too much as he he took care of the problem.  This one on his arm. That he made so that he could fix. So he could have control over something.

**_Than if I were to be healthy_ **

The high and the drunk and the endorphins and adrenaline all dropped him as he finished wrapping the ace bandage around his arm. His eyelids and arms felt heavy as he stumbled along his wavy path to the bed, grabbing George along the way.  Tears blurred his vision as he collapsed onto the bed, bouncing gently as he curled into a ball with George in the center under the heaviest blankets he had and cried until he fell asleep.

**_And pens and pen knives take the blame_ **

**_Crane my neck and scratch my name_ **

**_But the ugly marks are worth the momentary gain_ **

**_When I jab a sharpened object in_ **

**_Choirs of angels seem to sing_ **

**_Hymns of hate in memorandum_ **

 

**_*******_ **

 

Clint stared at Bucky’s bedroom door for a long moment, knowing too well what was about to happen.  

Three years ago Clint would have barged in right after him, trying to  wrap him into a blanket burrito and hug him till everything was better. There would have been screaming and fighting as Bucky struggled out of Clints holds and kicked him out of the room. And it would still happen. 

He could go into Bucky’s room everyday and take away all the sharps he could find, and it would still happen.

Three years ago, Clint would have felt guilty for letting Bucky get to this place, for handing him that one beer too many that flipped a switch in his brain, or for watching him follow yet another stranger into a dark alley and not saying a word. For dragging him out into the world in the first place. 

But it wasn’t Clint’s job to take care of Bucky. He wasn't his mother. They were adults. But it didn’t stop him from wishing he could. 

**_And you might say it's self-indulgent_ **

He collapsed onto the couch, sinking comfortably into the middle and flipped on the TV.  Cartoons. Loud cartoons. Colorful happy distractions from what was happening in Bucky’s bedroom.  He reminded himself that he could help Bucky tomorrow, as they rode out the aftermath on the couch.  He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but holding Bucky close as he clawed back up from the dark was one of his favorite things. Anytime Bucky let him in a little was his favorite. 

**_And you might say it's self-destructive_ **

He rolled a joint and tried to lose himself in the adventures of Rick and Morty as they wreaked havoc in yet another chaotic universe.  He tried not to look forward to the morning when he could be close, feel Bucky’s weight against his chest, and run his fingers through his long hair as they worked their way through several pots of coffee and a giant package of oreos. 

Because if he looked forward to Bucky at his lowest and most vulnerable, how fucked up did that make him?

**_But, you see, it's more productive_ **

It was what he could have though.  The extent of what Bucky could give him. Those little private moments he wished he could have all the time. He couldn’t ask for anymore. 

**_Than if I were to be happy_ **

Because Bucky could never be his, not really. 

Because Bucky was in love with Steve Rogers.

**_And sappy songs about sex and cheating_ **

Rick and Morty ended and he changed the channel. Infomercial. Spanish. Infomercial. Church service. Music videos. Music videos? Those were still on TV?

He watched three. They were awul. Some bubble gum teeny-bopper shit. He couldn't stop watching. It was like a car crash and he was blatantly rubbernecking. 

**_Bland accounts of two lovers meeting_ **

The fourth song was a cheesy love ballad.  The accompanying over dramatic video of two lovers on the beach was like a punch to the gut. 

**_Make me want to give mankind a beating_ **

He was thinking about Bucky again. He grabbed the remote and slammed the power button and tossed it on to the coffee table. He finished his joint in silence, hyper aware of the silence from Bucky’s room, and then went to bed where he would hopefully (probably not) pass the fuck out. 

 

**_******_ **

 

Clint was the first to wake in the morning.  At 1:30 in the afternoon. He shrugged as he looked at the clock as he shuffled toward the coffee maker.  Sunday fun day. The carafe was nearly full, and Clint was standing ready with his mug when Bucky’s door clicked open, and then the bathroom door clicked shut.

Clint grabbed Bucky’s mug and filled it for him with extra cream and sugar, contrasting Clints black. 

**_And you might say it's self-destructive_ **

Bucky hesitated at the entrance to the living room, frowning as he glanced between Clint and the coffee cups on the table. There was a large pack of oreos on the table and Bucky tried not to think about where they came from. Did Clint have a hidden oreo stash for when it was time to put Bucky back together again?  

He sighed as he entered the room and sat on the couch next to Clint.   They were doing this. 

**_But, you see, I'd kick the bucket_ **

Bucky cradled the coffee mug in his hands and sipping it slowly. He didn’t look at Clint when he whispered “I love you”.  Clint didn’t question if Bucky was talking to him or the coffee. He didn’t want to hear the answer. 

Clint didn’t ask if Bucky was ok, because clearly he wasn’t, and the elephant in the room didn’t need to be acknowledged anymore.  That conversation loop was dead. It wasn’t part of the routine anymore. 

Now, it was oreos, coffee, cuddling, old movies, and no talking.  

Bucky set down his coffee and grabbed a couple oreos.  He leaned into Clints shoulder and let himself relax a tiny bit.  He wondered, as he always did, if Clint really believed that Bucky wasn’t trying to kill himself. 

**_Sixty times before I'd kick the habit_ **

Bucky’s mind wandered as they sat on the couch, running through the events of the night before, and everything he had to do for school. To finish his thesis and graduate. And the deadlines, and the theme of his gallery pieces that he still had to finish. It was a lot of stress and anxiety that he could so easily wipe away with the right drugs. 

They were so good at letting him forget, for making him believe that everything was great. For making him think he was happy.   

And they were also good at reminding him how much he had to be unhappy about. 

And the things he did so that he could forget for a while.

Clint was solid under him, a warm support, grounding him and keeping the thoughts from pulling him back into the dark.

Neither would ever admit how much they both needed these days, after those nights.

**_And as the skin rips off I cherish the revolting thought_ **

Clint was happier than he would ever admit to, happier than he should be allowed to be as he held Bucky close.  He smiled as Bucky shifted closer as the oreos disappeared, relaxing as Clint’s fingers combed through his hair, and let himself be vulnerable.  

He tried not to notice the specks of red on Bucky’s sleeve, not wanting to know that Bucky had gone for the inner bicep last night. A few lines were still dripping, pulled apart again as Bucky moved, leaving their mark on the grey long sleeve shirt. 

He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to see it. He didn’t want the details.  And he didn’t want it to stop. 

**_That even if I quit there's not a chance in hell I'd stop_ **

Bucky flinched as he got up to go to the bathroom. The skin stretched as he moved and the shirt unstuck itself from the red. The dancing sting pulsed across his skin again, and he found a focus point.  It kept him out of the dark as he cleaned off the red, emptied his bladder, and refilled his coffee. 

He thought again about how he needed to stop this, to stop all of it, but it would never really end. The routine might change, it wouldn’t always be sex, drugs, and sharp objects, but the purpose would always stay the same. 

To distract and avoid. 

 

**_******_ **

 

Bucky groaned as his phone alarm started blaring, jolting him into consciousness.  It was Monday, and that meant senior studio with Steve. Monday meant three glorious hours of watching Steve paint across the room, while he rejected sketch after sketch as he tried to work out a theme for his final project.  It was a check in day. He would have to explain all the ideas he didn’t have with a classmate, and hear someone else's detailed plans.

**_And anyone can see the signs, mittens in the summertime_ **

It was a warm day, making the art building almost unbearably hot, and Bucky could feel the stares as he walked in wearing jeans and long sleeves. He would say that he was fine, that the heat didn’t bother him, but he couldn't deny the jealousy he felt when he spotted Steve in shorts and a tank top.  Steve definitely looked hot, and not in an overheating way like Bucky was. 

He slipped into the back corner, setting down his bag down at his feet, and hoped to be paired with Darcey, one of the few people he actually talked to at this school. 

He was paired with Steve Rogers.  This was awful. 

**_Thank you for your pity, you are too kind_ **

Steve leaned in, getting a better look at Bucky’s sketchbook.  “Wait, what was that? Go back.” 

_ It’s crap _ , Bucky thought as he flipped back the page. It was the worst of all his bad ideas.

“I like that,” Steve said, “Get some red in here and really emphasis the contrast there, and this could be really cool.”  Steve was smiling, relaxed as he excitedly talked about the ideas Bucky had.

And Bucky.  Bucky’s heart rate increased with each smile,  with every compliment. Steve Rogers was talking to him, for real, this wasn’t a dream (he had pinched himself three times already to check) and Bucky could not deal. 

**_And you might say its self-inflicted_ **

Bucky barely heard the words coming out of Steve’s mouth as he listened to Steve talk about his (obnoxiously well planned out and annoyingly perfect) plans for his project. A series of portraits of a woman, growing frailer as it went. 

He did his best to respond, nodding at what he hoped were appropriate times, and copying and pasting compliments and suggestions from all the art history lectures and critiques he had sat through in the past three years.

Steves demeanor shifted by the time he got to the last image, shoulders hunched as his voice caught.  This was something personal, something real, Steve was going through some emotions here, opening up to Bucky, and Bucky could not deal.

**_But you see that's contradictive_ **

“There’s a party at Tony’s this Saturday,” Steve said, making small talk at the end of class. “You should come.” Steve had stayed in the corner near Bucky, working on a laptop instead of painting in his usual corner for the rest of the class period. Bucky drew Steve instead of sketching out project ideas.

There was always a party at Tony’s, in the Stark mansion at the edge of town.  He and Clint knew they would be welcome anytime, but basement mosh pits at the punk house downtown were more their speed. 

“Maybe,” Bucky said with a shrug.   _ Definitely no _ . “I'm not sure what im doing yet.”   _ I’ll be slutting it up so I can stop feeling for a while.  _

He had thought too many times about it, attending a party with Steve, fantasizing about wooing him with his flirtatious charm and sneaking away to one of the mansions guest rooms.  So of course he could never go to one of Tony’s parties. He wasn’t actually that smooth. It would ruin everything.

He tried not to think about the logic behind his fear of talking to someone he was in love with.

**_Why on earth would anyone practice self-destruction?_ **

Bucky lingered at the work table, watching Steve leave the room before standing and slinging his bag over his shoulder. He moved slowly toward the door, turning on music and putting in earbuds as he went, in no rush to get lunch before his afternoon history lecture.

He was almost out of the building when he spotted her.  Peggy Carter. Steves (perfect, gorgeous, super smart, outgoing, friendly…) girlfriend. Hell, Bucky was totally gay and he kinda wanted to fuck her.  And there was Steve, pulling her into a hug and greeting her with a kiss.

And that was it.  The reminder that he had no chance. The darkness took hold and told him that Steve was only talking to him because he had to. Reminded him that he had been awkward as hell the whole time, and Steve was just being nice. And that he absolutely could not compete with Peggy Carter. 

Going to that party would be the worst form of torture bucky could think of. 

 

**_*****_ **

 

Bucky was anxiously pacing around the living room while Clint rolled a joint. It was Saturday night again, and there was another party at the punk house, and Bucky had been looking forward to it all week.  For the opportunity to be loud, and thrash and yell with whatever bands would be playing in the basement that night. To forget it all for a while and be happy for a few hours. 

**_And pain opinions are sitcom feeding_ **

“Sit down, man,” Clint ordered with a long sigh.   They still had at least an hour till it was worth leaving, until people started showing up and the bands started playing. 

Clint sealed up the joint and turned on the TV, ignoring Bucky who was now sitting stiffly beside him, tapping a foot.  They started watching a sitcom as they smoked, edges of reality starting to blur as the fake problems on screen came to a neat happy conclusion.

It wasn’t how life actually worked. 

**_They don't know that their minds are teething_ **

Bucky found himself thinking about Steve, and Tony’s party that night, and a small part of him was curious about what actually went on at the Stark mansion.  A larger part of him knew he would hate it, and not just because he would have to see Steve and Peggy together. He knew they type that partied there. The ones who were more concerned with fashion and trends than thinking for themselves. 

He wondered if they all realized they were all boring clones of each other. Probably not. 

**_Makes me want to give mankind a beating_ **

Another sitcom episode later and Clint decided it was time to go. They laced up heavy boots and made sure leather jackets were filled with joints and flasks, and made their way to the subway station.   The car they wound up on had been occupied by a group of teenagers who looked like they had just stepped out of a Hollister catalog, almost exactly the same. They paused their conversations and stared for a moment as Clint and Bucky entered the train car and grabbed seats at the opposite end. 

Bucky glared from is seat, trying not to think of Steve Rogers, who would probably fit right in that obnoxious group of idiots.  Crushes were weird. He slumped down in his seat, trying to resist the urge to scream at them all to fuck off and hoped their stop was soon. 

******

The house was starting to fill up with kids, and the sounds of the first band setting up and testing equipment began to float from the basement. They made their way around the yard and basement, checking out who else was there and chatting with various friends as they waited for the first band to start. 

_**I've tried bandages and sinking** _

It wasn't long before everyone started moving down to the basement, and the music started. Clint hung back, chatting with Scott as they drank beers and watched. Bucky stood with them for a couple songs, taking long swigs of whisky from his flask before pushing through the front of the crowd and began thrashing to the hardcore screamo music. He was grinning as he bumped shoulders and hips with the crowd. He felt alive again. 

Soon, Bucky he was sweating in his leather jacket, and slipped out of the crowd to stash it in a corner near Clint and Scott. He ignored the pointed looks from Scott as he exposed his arms, revealing the cuts in various stages of healing now that he was in a sleeveless shirt. He shrugged and made his way back to the front, jumping back into the fray. He used to try to hide it, bandaging his wrists or wearing long sleeves. It was the equivalent to sinking into a pit of self hatred.  It wasn't worth the discomfort that came with trying to preserve his image. Not at the punk house at least.

**_I've tried gloves and even thinking_ **

There was a break between bands and the crowd returned to the back yard, milling around in the cool air as the waited for the next band to start, and the next pit to form. He caught Brocks eye as he made his way to the alley to piss, and wasn’t surprised to see the guy waiting in the corner of the yard for him to return. 

“Need a fix?” Brock questioned as Bucky approached, already knowing what Bucky’s answer would be. 

Bucky hesitated, knowing he should say no, that the weed and whisky already in his system should be enough.  A part of him even wanted to say no; the same part that would want nothing to with sharp objects later that evening. Bucky still nodded in agreement though, and followed Brock back into the alley. 

The sweat that coated his body was making the cuts itch and burn. Some days he even wore gloves and would still manage to scratch and pick at them to the point of bleeding, no matter how much he tried to think about anything else. 

Brock was quick to pull a small mirror from his pocket and tap out a line of coke from a tiny jar, holding it out for him. Before he could think too much, Bucky pulled a rolled up dollar bill from his pocket, tightened it up, and leaned in, pulling the powder up through his nostrils with a sharp inhale. He held his breath as it burned momentarily, and then sighed with relief. 

**_I've tried vaseline, I've tried everything_ **

Brock tapped out another line onto the mirror and passed it to Bucky to hold for him. Bucky was jittery as he did his best to hold the mirror steady, and tried to rush back to the basement as soon as the mirror and jar were tucked back into Brocks pocket. 

Before Bucky could get away though, Brock had a grip on his bicep and was pushing him against a brick wall. He leaned in close as he pressed his body against Bucky’s, sharply grinding his hips. 

“You better not forget to find me again later to make this worth it for me,” Brock hissed, breath hot against Bucky's neck as he spoke. And Bucky nodded in reply, knowing that he would be craving more soon enough,  and would be letting Brock have his way with him as payment before the night was up. 

Hopefully, Bucky thought to himself as he made his way across the yard, Brock had brought some kind of lube this time. Even vaseline was better than spit. He wasn’t counting on it though. 

**_And no one cares if your back is bleeding_ **

Bucky spent the entirety of the next bands set at the edge of the makeshift stage, screaming along with their front woman Natasha as he jumped around in the mosh pit.  The rush of energy from the coke had fully kicked in, and Bucky was having a great time. 

Clint and Scott moved closer to the stage, still sipping on cheap beer while they enjoyed the music without having to worry about getting punched in the face.  (It was usually accidental, but happened from time to time near the front.) Clint spotted Brock in the opposite corner, bouncing to the music while keeping an eye on Bucky, and couldn't help but sigh, knowing how the night was likely to end. 

And Bucky just danced, trying not to think about how Brock liked to fuck him roughly against the brick wall, and tried not to worry about his back ending up scratched and bruised again. 

**_They're concerned with their hair receding_ **

Two more bands, and two more lines of coke later and Bucky was feeling amazing. He was racing around the yard trying to find an after party as the crowd began to clear out to go home.  He was feeling pleasantly numb from the coke, and the whisky from his now empty flask, and a few hits from Clints joint, and didn’t want the night to end. 

Brock caught up with him, and told him it was time, gesturing toward the ally.   Bucky ignored Clints glare as he slinked off to the alley, unable to to look as his best friend as he slipped away.  

He knew that people saw them, and that several even knew the details of the arrangement, but they all turned a blind eye, paying no attention to the queer coke-head getting fucked beside a dumpster. It wasn’t their problem. 

*****

As soon as they were hidden in the corner Brock pushed Bucky down onto his knees in front of him and opened up his fly. He pulled out his half hard dick and wriggled his hips so it hit Bucky’s face.

_**Looking back, it was all maltreating** _

“Suck it first while you get yourself ready,” Brock demanded, working his fingers into Bucky’s hair. 

Quicky, Bucky undid his own pants and belt and pushed them down. He looked up at Brock as he put two fingers in his mouth, spit soaked and dripping when he removed them a moment later. As soon as his mouth was free again, Brock began forcefully jabbing at Bucky’s lips with his dick, encouraging him to open wider. 

Bucky tried to make his mind blank as he worked his tongue over Brocks hardening cock, ignoring the gravel digging into his knees as Brock controlled the pace. He had a hand down his pants, working his fingers into his asshole as best he could at the awkward angle. Bucky fought the urge to vomit as the tip of Brocks dick struck the back of his throat, trying to pull back despite the tightening grip on his hair with each gag. 

“Don’t you dare puke on me, you little slut,” Brock threatened, thrusting his hips harder, cock striking deeper into bucky’s throat each time. 

**_Every thought that occurred misleading_ **

Finally, Brock pulled back, pulling roughly on Bucky’s hair has he pulled his cock from his mouth. He grabbed Bucky by the arm and pulled him to his feet, and then pushed him against the wall, wanting to take Bucky from behind this time. Bucky planted his hands on the wall in front of his face, and closed his eyes, hoping it would be over quick. 

“I hope for your sake that you got yourself prepared well enough,” Brock whispered as he forced Bucky's pants down and kicked his feet apart. 

Bucky tried to hold back his groan as he felt the tip of Brock's cock at his hole, slowly pushing in. He bit his thumb to hide a gasp as Brock bottomed out, and did his best to breathe through the pain as Brock roughly thrust into him.  All he could do was hope it would be over soon. 

Finally, Brock came with a long sigh, gripping Bucky’s hips tight enough to bruise as he orgasmed.  Bucky let out a sigh of relief as Brock pulled out, and pulled up is pants. 

“See you next week,” Brock called smugly as he walked away. 

As much as Bucky wanted this to be the last time, he knew deep down that Brock was probably right. 

**_Makes me want to give myself a beating_ **

Bucky made his way back to the yard to find Clint, walking slowly with his head down. The good mood he had been in was gone, replaced by self loathing. The sparkle in his eyes gone as he came down from his high. 

“Let’s go home, Clint,” Bucky mumbled. 

Clint looked at him with a frown, and then put an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, pulling him close.  He waved goodbye to the friends he had been chatting with and led Bucky to the road to find a cab.

They didn’t talk as they scanned the streets, holding each other tight as they waited. It was a precursor to tomorrow's hangover cuddling.

‘Maybe next week I can do a better job keeping him away from Brock’ Clint thought as he guided bucky into the back seat of a cab, and slid in next to him.

**Author's Note:**

> We made it.... I hope you are all ok. (Hugs for everyone!!) 
> 
> This fic is semi-autobiographical, and after a couple years of avoiding this topic, I decided I needed to write it and get it out of my system. It was more theraputic than I expected. And I hope some of you got something positive out of it as well, since I know that reading about fucked up shit, can help people cope with there own fucked up shit, even if it seems illogical. 
> 
> Also, before anyone corrects me, I know that Amanda Palmer did not intend this song to be about self harm. Ive heard the explination about wearing a back brace as a teenager that was always itchy, and jabbing sharp objects in to scratch her back. I had connected the lyrics with cutting before learning that however, and that will always be my thought when i hear it, even though I know the truth. 
> 
> follow me on tumblr at Kaiwrites for more of my art and writing!


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